Raven
by hexwolf
Summary: The story of Lirael's younger son Raven, who is the Abhorsen-in-waiting. Sabriel and Lirael are suspicious of the rise of the Dead, as a Necromancer and Creature of Free Magic plot to kill off the Abhorsen and Royal Blood lines.


_This is my first story I've submitted for Fanfic. I welcome all criticism, so if you have any feel free to voice it._

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, Garth Nix does. The only one I do own is Raven._

Prologue

The Dead Hands crawled away form the hated sound of Kibeth, moaning as they fought the Abhorsen's will, not wanting to walk the path that Kibeth would make them walk: Past the final gate. They fought with all of their wills combined, but it was no match, even though he was an Abhorsen-in-waiting, he was as powerful as the current Abhorsen, maybe even stronger. Finally the bodies' fell, returning back to the corpse state which they should be. But the Abhorsen-in-waiting did not relax, he was still fighting them, making them walk _all _of the gates and not just the first three, like they liked to do and wait then return to the Living World after they were sure the Abhorsen was gone.

After the final Dead Hand walked the gate the Abhorsen-in-waiting finally relaxed, or as far as he was willing to relax in these conditions. Placing a hand inside the bell and holding the clapper so Kibeth could not sound of its own will, as the bells liked to do with the untrained necromancers or Abhorsens, he placed it carefully in it's pouch. The leather bandolier had become a part of him, for when he didn't have the belts he felt vulnerable and defenseless.

He looked down at the seven bells he wore; the deep mahogany wood handles the only thing that identified him as a necromancer, or Abhorsen in his case. He supposed his skin would also identify him as one, as his skin tone was an ivory color, from so much time spent in death. Looking at the smallest pouch which was the size of a pillbox, he repeated the bells name in his head.

Ranna; the sleepbringer whose sound was a low, sweet sound that brought silence in its wake.

Mosrael, the second, a harsh, rowdy bell, the waker. The bell whose sound is a seesaw, throwing the ringer further into Death, as it brings the listener into Life.

Kibeth, the walker, a bell of several sounds, a difficult and contrary bell. It can give freedom of movement to one of the Dead, or walk them through the next gate.

Dyrim, a musical bell, of clear and pretty tone. Dyrim can return the voice that the Dead have so often lost, but Dyrim can also still a tongue that moves too freely.

Belgaer, another tricksome bell that seeks to ring of its own accord. The thinking bell, the bell most necromancers scorn to use. It can restore independent thought, memory and all the patterns of a living person, or slipping in a careless hand, erase them.

Saraneth, the deepest, lowest bell. The sound of strength, the binder, the bell that shackles the Dead to the wielder's will.

Astarael, the Sorrowful. The banisher, the final bell. Properly rung, it casts everyone who hears it far into Death. Everyone, including the ringer.

Raven smiled softly. The bells were his friends, his family. They were like a second part of him, and he rung them with a precision that scared Sabriel and Lirael. It was like he had a bond with the bells that made it so that they were like extra limbs, and that his and the bells minds were linked, one which was never heard of in the Abhorsen history. Yet when they asked Raven how he was so good with the bells, all he told his mother and aunt was that the bells just felt natural to him, nothing else. But that didn't mean that the bells listened to him perfectly, oh no. They were still dangerous, and even more so since he was so attuned to them. If he let the bells do what they want, the result would be catastrophic.

Raven blinked as the sun's waning light winked out. He turned around, his surecoat whipping around as he set up a brisk place that was almost a run. At night the dead were most likely to come out, and there had been a broken Charter Stone nearby, making a gateway for the dead to come. His hand touched the Charter Mark on his forehead where he had been baptized as a baby. It flared for a second before returning to the color of his skin, invisible to everyone except fellow Charter Mages or Necromancers or Creatures of Free Magic.

He shuddered at the thought of being caught by a Necromancer or Free Magic Creature. Because he would be no match for them right now if they had enough hands or there were two creatures instead of one. And the things of what they did to people, was multiplied by thousands if they caught an Abhorsen. At that thought he broke into a full out run, his hand on his silver bladed, gold trimmed sword, the Charter Marks on it glowing softly inside the scabbard.

Two golden eyes glowed in the dark as it watched the young Abhorsen-in-waiting run back to his boat at the lake, where had traveled to this small village that had been ravaged by Dead Hands. He thought there were still survivors but when he had gotten here they had all been massacred. But the Dead Hands had been mindless in their killing. They hadn't been controlled by anything so they killed as fast and as much as they wanted, preying on the human souls as they traveled into Precints of Death. Luckily for the souls, they had all managed to get to the Seventh Gate without harm, and the Dead Hands had been in a bad mood when Raven had arrived, causing him to retreat then come back and use two of the bells at the same time, which had been Ranna and Kibeth.

The Creature of Free Magic sighed, its breath making a small mist as the moisture was frozen. The Charter Mark flared briefly on its furry forehead as its breath lifted upwards and brushed the Mark softly. Its frozen breath had Charter Marks swirling in it, and as it watched the Charter Marks on it, it shook its head and stood stretching. It had chosen the appearance of a giant silver wolf, with golden eyes, with its paws and the tip of its tail black. As it followed the young Abhorsen-in-waiting, the Creature thought to itself.

As Raven pushed the small boat off into the deeper water, he looked back at the ravaged village, eyes narrowed as he searched the bare meadow. He had felt as if someone, or something, had been watching him. He shook his head, deciding it was just nerves, and started to row. Whatever it was, it couldn't get him out here in the middle of the lake. No Creatures of Free Magic or the Dead could. But he didn't know some could. Lucky for him it was on his side.


End file.
